Page 3 of The Bratva’s Captive Flame

"Open it," I grumble as I glower at my men.

Bart pries the lid off to reveal large packages of coffee, ground and chilled by the refrigerator units in the box. The grounds help mask the scent of meth, as do the colder temps, but it's the cleaning agent I smell—bleach or drain cleaner. All efforts to keep this from being detected by border patrol dogs.

I reach in and pull out one of the sealed bundles, slicing it open with the knife from my pocket. I slice open the corner of the sealed package with my knife, careful not to tear it too wide, and watch as a small amount of the crystalline powder spills onto the glass plate.

The color looks right with that faint yellowish tint, so I rub a bit between my fingers, feeling the dry and slightly oily texture, then crush a few crystals to see how easily they break down. Satisfied with the first checks, I drop a small sample into the testing vial and swirl it gently, waiting as the solution turns a deep blue before shifting toward purple, which confirms both the substance and the high purity.

"This batch is pure," I say, straightening and turning Bart and Mishka. "Unload the rest. Open every crate and run full inventory. I want confirmation on all of them before these two leave."

Now that my drugs are here and under my watchful eye, I'm ready to call this a day. Mishka and Bart will call in the rest and get this shit checked, unpacked, and ready to be portioned for distribution. All I have to do is go find that fucking drink I never got.

I'm halfway to the door when I hear a crate creak open and then the sound of Mishka’s voice.

"Boss." The call stops me in my tracks, carrying an edge that pulls me back immediately. I turn toward the second crate where they stand gawking and walk back over.

At first, the top layers of product look intact, but as my men lift more bundles out, the shortfall becomes painfully clear. Nearly half the expected volume is missing. This crate doesn't hold what it's supposed to, but what it does hold is shocking.

"What the…?" I ask, now reaching in with them to hastily pull more bricks of shrink-wrapped drugs.

Tucked deep in the corner under the remaining packages lies a woman, curled tightly in the cramped space, unmoving. Her dark hair is clinging to her face in matted strands damp with condensation and her clothes are torn and stained, hanging loosely on her frame. Thick swathes of bruises cover nearly every visible part of her skin, spreading across her arms and neck, along the side of her face and what I can see of her shoulders. It looks like the result of repeated impacts, as if she had been thrown around inside the crate during the rough trip over roads and borders.

I have no clue who this woman is or why she's in here, but my guess is some sort of escape… "Keep them back," I snarl, gesturing at Solano's men. Mishka herds them farther away from the open crate where they can't see her, and I'm at a loss as to what the fuck I'm supposed to do with this. A woman where my drugs are supposed to be? And where the fuck are my drugs?

She appears severely dehydrated, her lips cracked and dry, her complexion pale and waxy. Her breathing comes in shallow, labored breaths that make her chest rise unevenly, and her eyelids flutter but don't open fully. She's only half conscious, hovering on the edge of death if she doesn't get help soon.

"Escort Mr. Solano's guests back to their truck and tell them not to go anywhere yet, "I order, and Bart rushes off to help Mishka. I crouch, studying this woman. She's trying to say something, but her voice is hoarse, and she still hasn’t opened her eyes.

I shake her gently at first, then with more insistence. “Open your eyes,” I say. “Tell me who you are.”

She murmurs something incoherent, her head lolling to the side, but no clear words come out. She's too far gone right now, weakened by the journey. So I release her shoulder and stand up, clenching my hands into fists at my sides. The missing drugs will cost me time and force adjustments across my network, but this woman's a larger complication, a puzzle dropped directly into my lap that I have to solve now.

When my men come back, I run a hand through my hair and glower at the back of the truck, now closed up as exhaust rises up from the tailpipe. I don't think those idiots have a single clue that she was in there, and if she's trying to flee from them, I won't alert them. But I don't know what to do with a stowaway. Turning, I look Mishka in the eye.

“Take her to the east safehouse,” I order. “Lock her in the back room and post a guard outside the door. Call the doctor right away, and tell him to bring everything needed for severe dehydration and trauma, get fluids into her, and stabilize her condition. But make sure she remains secured until I arrive. No one speaks to her.”

They struggle to lift her from the crate as I walk over and hit the garage bay door button so we have some privacy. And when they have her loaded into the back seat of an SUV, I turn to Bart.

"Get the rest of these checks done. I'll call for more help and you'll have men here within the hour. We have to figure out what the fuck this is about." I'm not going to enjoy telling Sebastian about this, but it looks like I have no choice.

"Yeah, Boss… What about those mooks out there?" Bart nods at the door and I scowl.

"When the checks are done, pay them and cut 'em loose." Then I turn to watch Mishka driving off.

That woman survived a brutal journey hidden in that crate, and that alone suggests determination or desperation. I need to know why the hell she's in my shipment and exactly where the rest of my drugs disappeared to. Only she can provide those answers.

If she is some dirty trick being played on me, whoever is doing this is going to regret it. But something tells me she is just desperate enough to have done this herself. Which means she's going to want something from me.

She'll recover enough to speak. I'll make sure of it. And the answers she holds will determine her fate from here. Whether she becomes an asset or a liability depends on what she reveals when she finally opens her eyes.

3

ISABELA

Idrift up out of sleep slowly, with heavy eyelids and a dry mouth. It takes me a long moment to remember that I have no idea where I am, though the details of how I got here will forever remain seared into my mind. No way I'll ever forget that harrowing ride.

The first thing I feel is the cold of the steel cuff around my wrist, chaining me to the bed frame, biting into my skin every time I shift even a little. The second thing I feel is the line taped into the back of my arm. I lift my eyes to look at the IV bag hanging over me as the cold drip bubbles down the line into my arm. I lie still and let it all settle on me, piece by piece, until I've put together where I'm not.

I'm not in a hospital.